Carole ordered some stuff – just a couple of bits, she said – from Amazon the other day. One thing about my flexible work arrangements is that it does lend itself, very nicely, to having deliveries, well, delivered.
So I just thought one thing was coming. I didn’t ask further, I just recalled a spread of delivery dates. Likewise, Carole did not offer up any information about how many things were coming.
She did, however, text me the “number of stops until delivery” updates from the Amazon app.
When I opened the door it was almost like a comedic shopping experience was right there before me. One man and a srack of boxes reaching to the heavens, wobbly and poorly wrapped in places.
Just a couple of things, she said.
And then more came vis the Royal Mail, bizarrely. Not content with troubling a very nice Eastern European man with delivering her stuff, she’d managed to get more stuff sent – part of one of the orders that arrived in the stack, oddly – delivered by Postman Pat in his van.
And, somehow, everything came when I was in another part of the house doing things. Nothing arrived during the large percentage of time I spent in the front room. But as soon as I drifted away to sort washing, use the loo or do anything I’d been asked to do there was a frantic knocking at the door.
Which then leads to looking out to see who it is first. Because no-one wants to find any of God’s Messengers on their doorstep.
All of which adds precious seconds to the ticking clock of non-delivery. And imagine me tryng to explain that to Caz…